Ralph, Georgia, and Penny

I’ve shared the reason for this blog’s title in previous posts. Before giving a PD presentation for our colleagues back in 2018, Kyle gifted me this wisdom: Ana, start with a story. Everyone wants to hear one.

I sit in Male and Angie’s office between meetings (mine is occupied by a tutoring session.) On Mondays, I tend to go through the “Get it done” list of stuff I’ve promised teachers: planning templates, feedback on lesson plans, or a learning progression. I pick one and go from there. If the caffeine has kicked in, boom, click, tap, one task after the other until I have another meeting to rush to.

Today, I acknowledge my mood before I choose one task. Then, I glance over my recently organized desk and see two items I want to sink my teeth into: a blueberry muffin and Ralph Fletcher’s poetry book. I take a bite of the muffin and go meet Ralph.

Oh, Ralph. You always show up in the most unexpected ways. You come in, drop a little [loud] seed, and leave me with a cloud of inspiration to get my words going.

He starts his book with a story, and I think of Kyle. I think of this blog. I think of my own stories that have been forever recorded here since I started it. I think of how I’ve taught myself to use stories to express a collection of newborn thoughts. I think of Amy and her grand idea of keeping our mentors near. Ralph’s book keeps me company as I shape this slice.

I knew what to expect when I went to the writing retreat he and Georgia Heard hosted last Summer. I would bring my dormant scars and embrace them through my narratives. But what ended up happening surprised me. It felt like I was pushed onto the stage on improv night, and something rare emerged from underneath all those expectations. I wrote poems.

One after the other—short fragments, playful line breaks, and words that looked like strangers when landing on the page. Ambiguous ideas and memories recreating themselves through imperfect verses. One poem, then the next. Each of them greeted me with elegance; they owned the space. I felt powerless yet so humbled.

Georgia gave me the “ticket” I needed to validate that creative process. I wore the “Really? Poetry?” nametag when she sat beside me on Day 1 and read them aloud, gently removing the self-imposed tag by the end of the week. Yes, Ana. Poetry. Hearing her voice bring my words to life was transformational, and now I wonder why I haven’t written poetry since then.

Perhaps that’s what Ralph’s story did to me. It reminded me of that part of me that could create something out of nothing. The stage on improv night and a mic waiting to project unshaped parts of me. Then, life happens: As I finish writing this slice, Male reads aloud a third-grader’s goal for trimester 3. She writes: I want to write more poems.

Me too, Penny. Me too!